


Persephone.

by saechan



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Yakuza, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Assassin/Bodyguard!Winwin, Blood and Violence, Bottom Dong Si Cheng | WinWin, Hurt No Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mafia NCT, Mentioned Lee Taeyong, Mentioned Mark Lee (NCT), Morally Ambiguous Character, Nakamoto Yuta Being an Asshole, Yakuza Leader!Yuta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:22:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25122352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saechan/pseuds/saechan
Summary: When Yuta had seen Sicheng, he had been lying in the mud, like a lone flower in the dirt.
Relationships: Dong Si Cheng | WinWin/Nakamoto Yuta
Comments: 7
Kudos: 55





	Persephone.

Chocolate brown eyes flit upwards at the sound of the door opening quietly as the owner of the bedroom walks in. He observes, so quiet his presence is untraceable (not to _him_ , of course), as Yuta places his katana into its holder and unties the obi. He looks rather tired, Sicheng notes. Not that it makes him any less demanding and imposing. Pompous son of a bitch.

Yuta’s eyes finally find his, and he doesn't miss how they twinkle just a little and how the corner of his lips twitch upwards at the sight of Sicheng splayed out elegantly on his bed. His own eyes remain empty, though, as Yuta stalks forward, head high and stance predatory and stops at the edge of his bed. 

“Get up”, comes the command. Voice lilting and soft yet so powerful, and Sicheng feels tingles shoot down his back. He disobeys. Yuta’s lips stretch further.

“ _Winwin-dono_ ,” his voice has gone down an octave, “Get. _Up_.”

And just like that, he gives in (as always).

This time Yuta smiles. The kimono slips off of his broad, sculpted shoulders.

Sicheng makes sure his eyes are utterly devoid of any emotion as he sits up and lets Yuta run a finger from his temple, down his cheek, gentle as a feather, until he tucks it under his chin and lifts his face up.

“You've done a very good job today, Winwin-dono. You always make me so proud.” He murmurs, face barely centimeters away, voice laced in conceited fulfillment born from his loathsome arrogance— as if Sicheng is some pet he owns and has to pat on the head every time he gets a job done.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he lets Yuta undo his robes, pull them down his body and lets him run his hands up his arm, along his shoulders, neck, up, up, to his face, and cup his cheek. Gentle and soothing. He hates it.

“You are so beautiful”, he sighs, and his lips meet Sicheng’s. 

And just like that, he gives in (as always). 

Yuta lays him back down on the bed and climbs on top of him, lips moving against his, soft and languid, and large, firm, callous, hands caressing his arms, his waist, his back, laces into his soft sandy locks and then grabs them in a harsh grip and _pulls_ his head backwards and the contrast of soft to rough has Sicheng gasping. He hates it. 

Then Yuta’s lips are on his neck, feathering gentle kisses one moment and sucking and biting on his veins the next, and Sicheng’s hands fist around the bedsheets. 

“Say, Winwin-dono,” Yuta murmurs against a bruise he just bit into his neck, “Did you enjoy it? When you slit the necks of those men because they dared to disobey me?” A hand travels to his chest and continues downwards. Sicheng bites down on his lower lip.

“You precious, precious, boy.” A kiss on his collarbone. “You hate me so much, yet you don't think twice before shedding blood just to protect me.” The hand is on his stomach now, thumb brushing over his abdomen and he bites down harder on his lip, then lower, and lower still until— _oh,_ Sicheng gasps, oh _hell._

And the next thing he knows, Yuta is straddling him and sliding in, deep, deep inside and Sicheng can't _breathe_ . Between his gasps and sighs, Sicheng is vaguely aware of Yuta grabbing both his wrists in a vice-like grip and holding them over his head until he feels something wrap tight around his wrists— he looks at Yuta and catches him grinning, and he realizes he has his hands tied with his obi. Sicheng grits his teeth, Yuta chuckles and _thrusts_ into him.

And Yuta is caressing his cheek so so tenderly and he's looking at him with those— those _eyes_ , so _longingly_ , as if he doesn't already have Sicheng writhing underneath him, like he wants— _needs_ him, as if he isn't already at his mercy and he's looking at him like he's some fucking _flower_ and like he fucking _loves him—_

Sicheng hates it. 

He hates how _beautiful_ Yuta looks at this moment and how he can't take his eyes off of him. He hates how much he's making him _feel—_ how his skin is on fire, his head is spinning, how is heart feels like it's going to _explode_ and burst out of his chest, all for _this man._ He hates how _right_ it all feels and how he _lets_ him do this, every single time, he _hates it—_ the heat is scorching him up from the inside, spreading from his stomach to his entire body until he can't take it anymore and Yuta, _Yuta, Yuta—_

He hates how it's always his name that tumbles out of his lips, like some fucking prayer. 

But just like that, he gives in. As always.

(He hates how much he loves him.)

  
  


.

  
  


Nakamoto Yuta was a meer teenager when he'd met Dong Sicheng in one of the Yakuza’s ventures to China. The Chinese mafia were powerful, but they were never nearly as mighty and merciless as Japan’s Yakuza families. A true katana never misses its prey, they say. The Chinese had been wiped out in one night and with them, Sicheng’s parents, the brothers he'd fought alongside of and his Shifu. 

He had been lying somewhere in the dirt sometime around dawn, bloodied and bruised and thinking of taking his life when his vision had registered a tall, muscular, figure crouching down in front of him. The boy had looked at him with curious, disgustingly _innocent_ eyes and a childlike tilt of his head, face bloodied, kimono giving off the stench of rotting flesh, and that had been enough to let Sicheng know— this was him, the _Ayakashi_ . The “young demon” they all talked about, the shrewd, unforgiving, bloodthirsty then Yakuza heir, the one who had led the massacre that night, the one who had single-handedly sliced through dozens and dozens of the Chinese with a gleeful smile on his face. It had made Sicheng’s blood _boil._

The demon though, had just smiled at him and told his men to treat his wounds and hold him captive.

And Sicheng has never hated him more than he had in that moment. 

(“You had reminded me of a cherry blossom in the mud,” Yuta had told him once, “a lone flower in the dirt. You were so pretty.”) 

From the way most of Yuta’s men had leered at him, Sicheng had been sure he had been taken just to be sold into one of the Yakuza’s geisha houses— he knew he had a pretty face, porcelain skin and lithe body— if not as someone's personal whore.

(“I have seen you fight on the battlefield, _Sicheng_ -dono. You are so quick and graceful, so very skilled, it had looked like you were dancing. I must say, I am impressed. I have the _perfect_ job for you,” Yuta had said, with a smile so wide it had made Sicheng _sick_. “You will be my protector.”) 

And then Yuta had trained him, in the ways of the Yakuza, given him a new name and made him his first fighter.

Sicheng didn't understand. How _dare_ this man, who took _everything_ from him, refused to let him die and follow his family, held him captive, even _think_ he had the right to give him a new identity, a new life? 

(Sicheng had tortured himself, screamed and cried as he dug shards of glass into his own back, and some days, Yuta had watched him, still as a picture, with hollow, hollow eyes. Until he had kissed him one day, and Sicheng let him. One touch had turned to one more, and Sicheng let him.

(Until one day, Yuta is the one broken and screaming, writhing and bleeding, and for some unfathomable reason, Sicheng— _Winwin—_ is the one holding him. And that was the day Sicheng truly breaks. _(Blooms.)_ ))

Dong Sicheng can't remember the last time he has been happy. But for the longest time, Nakamoto Yuta has been the only reason he never let the blade slit deep enough into wrist every time he tried to bleed his life out. 

  
  


.

  
  


They are at war. The operation to eradicate Korea’s Lee Family has taken a turn for the worse— Lee Taeyong and his younger brother have turned out far, far more formidable than they had calculated but more concerning is how, for some reason, his men have decreased in number and they are not advancing the way he had strategized. A few feet away, Winwin skillfully cuts down another man. _Why_ are only a handful of his men following his orders? Why are the men who were sent to him by the other family not—

Yuta’s eyes widen as realization hits him. He looks at Winwin, who has just finished off three of the other family’s men. Men who were supposed to be on _his_ side. Winwin’s eyes meet his, betrayed and alarmed, and Yuta knows he has figured it out as well. 

It happens in seconds. Winwin’s eyes move just past Yuta and before he can blink, Winwin is moving, fast and lithe as a feline and throws Yuta out of the way— 

Blood splatters into Yuta’s face—

Syrupy sangria pools into the mud—

  
  
  
  
  
  


(The last time Yuta had seen Winwin, he had been lying in the mud, in a pool of his own blood, like a flower in the dirt.)

  
  
  


.

.

.

  
  


_“We don't get to choose who we fall in love with.”_

  
  
  
  


_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Yuwin maybe a dead ship (fuck u SM), but their chemistry will never die.


End file.
